


Dandelions and Pimpernels

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Rosemary and Thyme
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, My First Work in This Fandom, Picking up that dropped little plot thread from the Invisible Worm, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Of course she goes back. It just takes a few years and she stops on the road there more than once.Because it is an opinion that fire cannot burn out of me that our lovely Laura went back to that sweet little prof at that strange boys' school from the Invisible Worm and gave that former Pimpernel a sporting chance.





	Dandelions and Pimpernels

**Author's Note:**

> The title is 2 humble flowers that people wouldn't really notice or look twice at, but they're both more special than they seem. They symbolize wishes and hope, and that seems fitting for two people who liked each other and didn't know what to do about it. And then get a second chance to get it right.  
> Laura crying at the end of that episode broke me a little, like "what the heck is going on? some guy likes me and thinks I'm pretty? I gotta go!" and I was never able to let go of the thought that dammit, she needs to go back and get her man.

Of _course_ she goes back. It just takes a few years, and she stops on the road there more than once.

The business gets bought out by a larger outfit for a very nice profit, so the gardening sleuths hang up their shovels and spyglasses in favor of retirement, and Laura finds herself at something of a loose end. And then she plucks at it.

It takes 3 months to talk herself into going. And another 3 weeks to figure out how to pack for a trip like this.

Halfway through the first cramming of her large ancient hard-side suitcase, she takes everything back out again. Then comes careful selection and meticulous folds and rolls and tucks to make sure everything looks nice without needing a press. (That takes 3 days and lasts about 9 minutes before she gives a cry of frustration and dumps it back out on the bed.)

Finally Rosemary comes to the rescue, shooing Laura out to put the kettle on and presenting her with a single mid-size case half an hour later, insisting that it's "everything she could need for the weekend."

Laura hems and haws until Rosemary pushes her into a brisk shower and tells her to put on what's been laid out and like it for pity's sake. The dishes are done and the place is clean by Boxer standards when she emerges in a flattering pair of comfortable jeans that show her recently slimming thighs and a hunter green peasant blouse that shows the faintest shadow of cleavage and brings out the creaminess of her skin. Her hair looks particularly vibrant in soft waves that frame her face, gently accented with cosmetics and small emerald studs. Her shuffling feet are directed into plain black flats and Rosemary locks the door behind them.

"Alright, ducks," her partner in crime murmurs mid-squeeze, "Be safe and try not to have too much fun." She stands in the rearview until Laura rounds the bend, almost daring her to turn back.

Laura dawdles by a picturesque lake 20 miles past the city limits, chastising herself for the little tendril of hope she's nurtured in total darkness for the past few years. "He probably won't even _remember_ me," she insists to herself as she climbs back into the car. The radio is a comforting murmur to distract her as she drives on, and she allows that little tendril a much needed breath of fresh air and healing sunlight.

The petrol station just past the halfway mark is her next Rubicon. She's rinsing the sad remains of former insects off the windscreen when she gets a flash of her reflection. "Oh God," she quivers. "What am I thinking?" She goes in to pay the attendant for the fuel and a coffee, and on impulse grabs a Flake and a jumbo mint Kit Kat.

Chocolate and caffeine provide a soothing spur to keep going, and she finds herself at the sign announcing the academy before her nerves hitch themselves into a knot again. The cold wave of nausea that slams her makes her ironically glad she stashed the Kit-Kat for later because the Flake and mockup latte she'd had are threatening an encore. The turning indicator is on and her hand is hovering over the gear shift, ready to let the fear beat her home, when her mobile rings.

She could ignore it- the odds of an actual emergency are slim these days - but Simon & Garfunkel croon persistently until she puts the car back in park and stabs at the ANSWER icon.

"Rosemary, I--"

"Just calling to see you'd arrived in one piece. Even stopping for fuel and second guessing, you should be just about there, shouldn't you?"

"Yes, but you see I--"

"Well, I won't keep you then. Just wanted to make sure you were alright. If I don't hear from you tomorrow - not that I expect to, mind - promise to call when you're on the way back. Alright?"

"Rosemary, I'm trying to tell you that I--"

"I know what you're trying to tell me. That's why I'm not letting you. Now hang up and have fun! Bye!" The bleep in her ear redundantly informs her Rosemary has rung off, and the sigh of the steamrolled-against-one's-will fills the car. The indicator is clicking in time to her heartbeat, and her fingers against the steering wheel add a staccato counterpoint.

"It won't work," she thinks, errantly chewing her bottom lip. "It was a silly idea, and I shouldn't have come." She noses back towards the road, flooded with intention to go back home and bury herself under plushy blankets until such foolish ideas leave her... when the radio starts playing "My World is Empty Without You" by the Supremes. The song has barely cleared the first verse when she swings out in the direction of the school, accelerator pressing ever closer to the floor. "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" is quickly followed by a vibrant cover of the Beatles' "Don't Let Me Down." The gates loom large before her as she breathes a whisper of thanks to whatever cosmic DJ had mixed the inspirational playlist.

The fresh-faced kid in the guardhouse gives her a quick once over, then smiles and waves her through. She puzzles over this up the winding drive, then pulls to a stop before the Admin building and slides out, smoothing her hair and wiping her hands over denim-clad thighs as she pockets the keys.

It's late Thursday afternoon in MId-Term, and a thought wraps her in a clammy grip as she realizes Richard may not be happy to see her. Hell, he might not even be here!

Deep calming breaths are beyond her, hyperventilation kicking in as she wheels back to the car - just as a call of gleeful surprise rings out.

"Laura?" She turns to the sound and spies him moving swiftly in a not-quite-jog down the steps, a tentative smile on his face. "Is that really you?"

"Yes. It's me," she replies in a tight chirp that rings of nerves, one hand making some half-baked gesture of offhand nonchalance.

He gets within an arm's length and they do that little shuffle of uncertain greeting one often sees in films, where neither knows if a hug or a handshake is the right course of action and tries the opposite of what the other does. Finally, amid a shared laugh, he simply pulls her into his arms and holds her a minute until her arms wrap themselves loosely about his ribcage. She feels herself uncoiling again, and sinks into the hold a moment before they pull apart.

"So... dinner?"

And just like that, she's home.

* * *

She learns things about him that first weekend, and the one after that. And the Christmas holiday, and Spring Release, and Michelmas. And in Greece over the summer.

He flaps the end of his tie when he's nervous, as though he can swat it away like a mosquito. He hates peas, but always tries to eat some vegetable at meals to encourage the boys by example. His eyebrows have a life of their own. He has a clever and utterly filthy sense of humor that somehow never shocks her, nor does he mind when she lets him have a bit of his own back with limericks and anecdotes she remembers from her days with the Met. He smiles like he's savoring something sweet, and when she catches him doing it at her, she feels warm to the tips of her toes.

And speaking of toes, he can do rather impressive things that make them curl tightly... but that's one of the many things she doesn't even tell Rosemary.

* * *

It takes another year (and several "sleepovers") before he pops the question. They're under a tree following an afternoon picnic, when he begins reciting a poem by Shelley as she rests her head in his lap, eyes closed contentedly even when he picks up her hand and presses a kiss to the back.

It's not until she feels the slide of cool metal against a very important finger that her eyes snap open and she stares in mute shock between the ring glittering on the third finger of the right hand and the man who put it there.

"Are you sure?" is probably not the answer he's looking for, but he rolls his eyes in that indulgent way he does when she tries to rush into her dressing gown in the mornings, or tries to sneak the lights off when they're together, or blushes when he rolls her on top of him.

He leans down with only the slightest of creaks, and presses a kiss to her lips, sealing with the breath of a "yes." His hair is warm between her fingers as she pulls him back for another kiss, not breaking the connection even for an instant as she eases up to settle beside him.

* * *

They marry in September, a week before the start of term, and plan to take an extended honeymoon at the winter break - her kids' wedding present to them. Rosemary - darling in a jade pantsuit and standing in as maid of honor - assures Laura she's radiant in her maroon tea-length gown.

She walks down the aisle to a quiet acoustic rendition of "Something in the Way She Moves" by the Beatles, and the man waiting for her at the altar looks dashing indeed in a well-cut black suit with a rich red tie and rose boutonniere that perfectly match the shade of her dress. They eat lemon cake with vanilla chiffon icing, and tuck away plates of food from the potluck reception, and drink far too much champagne, and dance the night away in their stocking feet.

It's not an end. It's not quite a beginning. It's something else entirely, and it fits them just right.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos feed my soul.


End file.
